


Ibiza #1 - The Star of Bacchus

by ceeainthereforthat



Series: Hedonism for Beginners [4]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Eliot POV, F/M, Facial Shaving, Feelings, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Sense Sharing, Sex Magic Shenanigans, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering, disco never died, it's a pagan ritual, marqueliot, outlandishly sexy outfits, that is also an orgy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 03:29:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19348588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceeainthereforthat/pseuds/ceeainthereforthat
Summary: Eliot, Quentin, and Margo take a three hour ferry to the island resort that has hosted a perpetual revel to Bacchus for centuries. Quentin may not know how to dance, but he sure knows how to do something Margo really likes.Eliot has inconvenient feelings.





	Ibiza #1 - The Star of Bacchus

Of all the things Eliot thought would happen as the hours before their departure ticked down, standing up in the common room with his arms wrapped around Alice Quinn wasn't on the list. But she'd caught him making notes to Todd about how he was responsible for the cottage and last minute instructions to get his bar safely through the weekend. She bit on her cuticles as she thanked him for coming with them to talk to the Dean about what happened. When her eyebrows crumpled up like she was going to cry, it had just been instinct.

And it had been okay. Alice squeezed him tight and was content to stand right there until Quentin finally showed up from getting notes on the classes he was going to miss, and that was fucking adorable.

"You can't bring homework to Ibiza," Eliot says, and Quentin looks a little embarrassed. 

He shrugs. So damn cute. "I thought I'd do it on the ferry. You said there was a three hour trip from the portal to the island?"

Alice looks up. "Not that I've been there but I thought there was a portal directly to the island?"

"If you're attuned," Eliot says. "If you're bringing a tribute, it's the ferry for you."

"Right, so I just thought—"

"Sweetheart, it's a luxury charter. _The Star of Bacchus_ has three hot tubs, two cocktail bars, an outdoor discotheque, and a communal playroom. They'll dump your homework into the sea." Eliot kisses the top of Alice's head and looks into her face. "Are you going to be okay?"

Alice nods. "I'm fine. You just give good hugs."

Eliot laughs and squeezes her again. "Okay. Come get another one when we're back. I have to deal with Q's stubble emergency."

"I can shave," Quentin rubs at his face. "I didn't do it this morning."

"And you need to exfoliate," Eliot says. "Two-step mask, I think—I've got everything set up. All you have to do it get naked and do as I say."

Quentin raises an eyebrow. "Oh _really._ "

"Smartass," Eliot mock-grumbles, and slaps his ass as they climb the stairs to Eliot's room. 

Quentin doesn't mind a little help getting naked, or help in the shower—though he grumbles a bit when Eliot cuts off the fooling around to get on the serious business of rubbing an oil-and-salt scrub all over his skin, pumicing calluses, finishing with a standing scalp massage as Eliot washes and conditions his hair. He's pink from the hot water and the scrubbing and clean as a whistle when Eliot sits him in the chair he'd set up in his bedroom and tilts his head back. 

"This get naked and do as you say thing really works for me," Quentin says. "I feel silky. Now what are we doing?"

"One question, first." Eliot draws the towel away from a tray full of everything he needs to shave, and Quentin's eyes go wide as Eliot picks up his bone-handled straight razor and opens it up, revealing the curving, wood-grain like shades of a single edged Damascus steel blade.

"Do you trust me?"

Quentin's eyes go dark. He's scared. But his tongue darts out to lick his lips, and he's riveted to the gleaming, fresh-honed edge of Eliot's razor.

He swallows and lifts his chin. "Yes."

.o.O.o.

Quentin's eyes never lose that starry gloss as Eliot takes him through every careful, ritualized step of a straight razor wet shave. Eliot holds his gaze as he massages shave oil into Quentin's cheeks, jaw, and throat, watching him relax into the sensation, the attention that puts Quentin in the center of the world. He smiles as Eliot covers his beard in lime and lilac-scented lather, but goes still as Eliot takes up the razor, balanced delicately in the fingers of his left hand. 

"I can switch blades," Eliot says. One last out.

"No. I trust you." Quentin lifts his chin a little higher, and Eliot floats the razor down to rest on Quentin's cheek.

Short, firm strokes. With the grain, not against, carefully following the direction Quentin's beard grows in, and when he cleans the blade when it fills with whiskers and soap, the basin full of water tinkles as the blade disturbs the surface.

Eliot focuses so completely he's entranced. Quentin stays still and breathes slowly. He looks deep into Eliot's eyes every time he brings the clean, stropped blade back to his face. The first time the blade touches his throat, a high, soft noise escapes his mouth.

Fuck. Quentin trusting him—not with serene acceptance but with this deliberate acquiescence, feeling the fear and doing it anyway—it's a drug. He's clear, focused, right in this moment with Quentin. It's a magic he can't disturb with idle talk or diminish with nothing less than his complete attention. He had planned it as a way to explore Quentin's comfort zone, to get him prepared for the intensity of Bacchanal, but there's magic in what they're doing—magic that the great lord of the vine would appreciate.

When Eliot re-oils and lathers his face for a second go, Quentin lets out a soft, throaty breath, eyelids fluttering as Eliot brings the razor to his throat.

He's deft and careful, and Quentin's face is shaved so clean Eliot shivers. He tuts a spell to delay the beard growing back in and caresses Quentin's face. Wordlessly, he gives Quentin his hand and helps him stand up, and Quentin's cock is rock-hard. 

He stands still as Eliot fits him into white leather sandals and a matching asymmetrical shoulder harness that emphasizes Quentin's hard work in the pool. Three narrow straps drape over his right shoulder from a shiny chrome ring, the fourth passing under his arm, while a broader strap buckles across his chest. Quentin's broader than Eliot was when he first wore it to the island, but it fits him even better. The effect is perfect.

Eliot opens a florist's box and lays a crown of white phalaenopsis flowers twined with ivy on Quentin's head, then takes Quentin's face in his hands and kisses him. It's heavy with ceremony, thick with significance, and Quentin's dick strains upward, the sheathed tip shiny with arousal. Eliot has him step into a tight pair of white booty shorts, and stands up to admire the effect.

Fuck, if he had his way Quentin would wander around like this all the time, but it's perfect for the occasion. He's going to turn heads on the ferry--especially after he realizes that people are watching him. 

Quentin smiles and turns a slow circle for Eliot's inspection. 

"I'm wearing a flower crown," Quentin says. "I feel like we're going to a pagan ritual."

"We are," Eliot says.

"I thought we were going to an orgy."

"We're doing that too," Eliot says. "Bacchanal is a perpetual party, one that's been running for centuries, if the legend is right—debauchery and revelry dedicated to Bacchus."

"Bacchus the god," Quentin says. "I feel like tribute."

Eliot grins and boops Quentin's nose. "You are. I'm pretty sure he's going to like you."

Eliot reaches for skimpy gold booty shorts and laces up a pair of sandals. He waves at their suitcases, and they rise into the air. "The portal's keyed to the front door," Eliot says. "Ready to go?"

"In this?"

"A few days ago you walked in here in less."

"Right." Quentin raises his head, puts his shoulders back, and struts. "Where's Margo--Oh sweet Jesus."

.o.O.o.

Margo's naked under that dress.

It's stunning--a diaphanous floor-length frock of gold tissue silk draped in an open-fronted wrap style. The necklineplunges to the dresses' jeweled clasp below Margo's navel; the skirt sways open as her bare golden legs show all the way up her thighs, and she's wearing absolutely nothing underneath. She's as tall as Quentin thanks to the platform soled gladiator sandals that wrap all the way up her ankles. Just gorgeous, his Bambi, looking like a glistening golden star.

She's smirking at Quentin, who's openly gazing at her, taking in every detail from her gold-enameled pedicure to the precision of her smoky eye makeup. He can't hide his admiration and delight at her beauty and frank desire is written all over his face, but he stays back and looks at her eyes and not her body. "You look amazing."

"What about you?" She checks Quentin out as frankly as he had ogled her, and Eliot can't wait until they get to the island and get cozy. Margo's interested. Quentin's definitely interested. And Eliot's going to enjoy them circling and flirting until the moment comes and they're all in the same bed. "Bacchus is going to love you--and we're going to be favored, for bringing him such excellent tribute."

Quentin "So the...Bacchanal is run by a guy named Bacchus?"

Eliot smiles and bends to kiss his bare shoulder. "No, sweetheart. The Bacchanal is run by Bacchus."

Quentin looks back at Eliot. "The god."

"The same."

"Holy shit."

Margo laughs. "Come on, departure's in fifteen minutes. We can't be late."

She saunters down the stairs, leaving her suitcase behind. Eliot picks it up with the other two, and floats it down the stairs to where Margo is casting the portal on the front door.

Eliot takes Quentin's hand and walks him from the foyer to a dock, smelling of seaweed and ocean, the sky overhead blazing with stars, and the infectious, retro sound of 70's disco music. Margo does a little dance right on the dock, waving at someone hanging over the railing of the top deck, lit by tiny golden lights.

"Dancing first, or do we have to tell Quentin what to expect?"

Quentin adjusts his flower crown. "I really don't know what to expect."

"Okay. First of all, I booked us a villa for the trip--I'm not chucking you in the deep end of the pool. The hotel is kind of a three hundred person orgy, 24 hours a day. Villas are more private."

Eliot snuggles in close and kisses his neck. "We'll have our own swimming pool, fitness facilities, two pleasure suites—One's leather and chains, the other one is softer on the edges. You never have to go to the hotel parties unless you want to—"

Quentin lifts one hand to reach back and pet Eliot's hair. "Do you go to the hotel parties?"

"Yes," Margo says. "We usually stay in the hotel. But staying in a villa doesn't mean you have to stay there the whole time. I just want you to have a landing pad so you can play at your own speed."

"I will stay with you," Eliot says. "Margo is going to do whatever the hell she wants, but your speed is my speed."

"Valid," Margo says. "You two can just be all boyfriendy the whole time if you want to—if it turns out you're a hotel fan, then we know for next time. That's all."

Next time. Boyfriendy. Margo's talking about their second trip to Bacchanal like it's a given, of course Quentin's coming next time. Only they never--they hadn't had _that_ talk. It wasn't time for that talk yet, and when Margo says _next time_ Quentin's shoulders melt a little, and he sneaks a little look Eliot's way.

Fuck.

"We should board," Eliot says, and he keeps hold of Quentin's hand until they have to go up the gangplank. "What's our split on the villa?"

"Nothing," Margo says. "I've got it."

"I've got to give you something," Eliot says. 

Margo tosses her hair in a smoky, shimmering curtain and shoots him a look over her shoulder. "Oh, I think you will."

Quentin's trying to see everything as they drop off their bags with a concierge, who tags them and takes them away. A beautiful woman in a scarlet thong presents them with a tray of goodies--champagne, cocaine, and a silver bowl engraved with MDMA on the rim, filled with pink pills stamped with a bunny on one side.

Eliot lets Quentin pick their poison. He chooses champagne. Eliot pouts at the candy bowl, but he already said he would follow Quentin's lead and so he picks up two flutes of champagne and hands one to Margo.

Quentin sips, and then regards the glass with some surprise. "That's really good."

"Only the best," Eliot says, and stops a handsome man in a scarlet thong. "Excuse me," he says, lifting the flute. "What is this vintage?"

"It's from Himself," the man says. "A 2002."

"It's stunning. Thank you," Eliot says, and sips again. 

"We're drinking champagne made by a god," Quentin mutters. "What is my life?"

Margo hold up one shiny gold-manicured finger. "No contemplation now. Dancing now."

.o.O.o.

The 70's never ended on _The Star of Bacchus._ Old school disco pounds down on the dance floor in a BPM that's just like fucking, and magicians in gold, tributes in white, and regulars in leather and every color of the rainbow pulse and move to Donna Summer feeling love on the light-up squares of the dance floor. 

Margo lifts her arms and the butterfly sleeves of her gown shiver and glisten as she winds her hips in figures straight out of a belly dancer's repertoire. She's got hips like a snake and her body rolls ought to be illegal and Quentin looks like he's been pierced through the heart, staring at her.

Eliot slides up behind her and they gyrate together, snapping into the same groove, the same rhythms, two bodies joined in the delight of moving. Margo leans backwards on Eliot's chest and Eliot slides his hands up her silk-clad body and Quentin watches, his eyes huge with the spectacle of it all.

Stately as a queen, Margo stretches out one hand to Quentin and beckons. He takes a step forward, mesmerized by her, and then stops.

"I can't dance," he says.

"Tits out, Coldwater," Margo says. "Get your ass over here."

He huffs a laugh and comes near. "I'm sorry in advance."

"Okay. first thing," Eliot shouts back. "If you can count to four, you can dance."

Quentin laughs and shakes his head. "I really can't."

"One, two, three, four!" Eliot chants. "Come on. Count." 

Quentin listens for a moment, then counts. He tries to step to the beat, but Eliot stops him.

"Okay. Very important. You move small on the one and the three, you move big on the two and the four. Just shift your hips. One, two, three, four--here."

Eliot grabs Quentin by the hips, bending his knees and slinging his hips forward. "Just the hips. One, two, three, four. Move with me. Good. One, two, three, four. It's all hips."

Margo dips off the dance floor, _"I'll be right back"_ floating behind her. Eliot plants his hands on Quentin's ass and grinds him in closer. Quentin gets it, then, and they're grinding together like they're going to drop their shorts and screw right here. Eliot backs up just enough to spin Quentin around, and Quentin bends over, feeling Eliot's hard dick rubbing on his ass. 

In hold, Quentin's having sex with his clothes on, but if Eliot lets him go he loses the beat. That's fine. Eliot can hold onto him, guide him, and he smiles over Quentin's shoulder at a trio of hot men watching them dance.

"They're looking at you," Eliot says in Quentin's ear, and then reaches up to toy with Quentin's nipples and he goes liquid and sensual, leaning his head back against Eliot's shoulder, body-rolling to follow Eliot's wandering touch down his body, gasping when Eliot grabs his cock through his tight white shorts.

Those three are definitely enjoying the sight of it. Eliot knows what they look like--the gold-clad dedicated celebrant and the white-clad tribute who still exuded innocence and sensuality at the same time. Eliot turns his head and murmurs again. "They're watching you. Look at them."

Quentin tracks them and smiles, turning to kiss the corner of Eliot's jaw, hips rocking as he grinds his cock into Eliot's grip. One of them walks up and eyes them both with a hungry smile.

"Look us up when we're on the island?" He asks, and Quentin reaches up to caress Eliot's cheek.

"Can we?" he asks, and Eliot's shaky with the vision of Quentin, naked in the center of all those men, kissing and touching and watching Eliot to make sure he can see everything. It's fucking hot, and it makes him want to growl out _mine_ and chase the guy away.

"We'll look you up for a drink," Eliot promises. He'd thought he was going to be the one to soothe Quentin's worries. This feeling growling inside him--what the hell is that?

_Get it together, Waugh. Party now. Brood later._

Margo plunges back into the crowd with her hands full of extra-tall tequila shots. "Loosen up a bit!" she yells, and the three of them knock them back. Eliot grabs one of Margo's hands like he's going to kiss it and licks instead, tasting salt and lemon on her knuckles. Margo offers her knuckles to Quentin, and he raises her hand to his lips and licks. And that doesn't set him off at all, even if Quentin's watching Margo like she's a tall drink of water and he's dying of thirst.

It occurs to him, as Margo grinds on Quentin that he hasn't ever done this with Margo. Threesomes, sure. Clusters in the cuddle party, all the years they went to Ibiza, any time they dropped in on Libido and took a nice boy or a nice girl back to their hotel--sure, they've ridden shotgun with each other before. But not like this. Not with someone Eliot was going to see past the next morning, not with his—

Fuck. What were they? And why can't he just shut off his fucking brain and get into it?

"Eliot."

Eliot snaps back into focus. "Hi."

Margo eyes him. "Do you need a chillout room?"

Maybe he does. "Yeah."

"Okay. Come on," Margo says, and she leads the way off the lighted squares of the dance floor.

.o.O.o.

"Quentin, be a sweetheart and find Eliot some water, will you?" Margo asks, and Quentin nods before he goes in search of a bottle. Once he's out of sight, Margo pushes him to lean against the corner of a glossy wooden wall and then leans against him, her body pressed up against his--not to tempt him but to ground him in place.

"Talk."

"I don't know what's going on," Eliot says. "I've never done this before, I didn't think about it and now we're all here and it's hitting me the wrong way—"

"Okay. Breathe. What's hitting you the wrong way?"

"Quentin. Not him. But him."

"You've never brought your boyfriend to swing with you," Margo says, and doesn't that hit the bullseye dead center? But Eliot looks down at her, his middle tense.

"Is he?"

"I can't decide that for you," Margo says, "but you go a long way out of your way to make him happy."

"It makes me happy too," Eliot says, and Margo pets his arms.

"I know. So what happened? Did someone ask for a bite and you got jealous?"

"Yes." 

Margo blinks. "I was making a joke."

"Shut up." The weight on his shoulders shifts, and Eliot takes a breath and uses his words. "Three hotties wanted to get together with us and Quentin was okay enough with it to leave it up to me, and I backed it up to drinks. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Okay. Look, you're still pretty New Relationship Energy. Maybe you're just still bonding or something. Do you need me to step off? I met a gorgeous couple who want to meet for a siesta and I can definitely make my own fun if you just want to get cozy with Quentin—"

"No," Eliot says. "I see how Quentin wants you, and it's hot."

"It is," Margo says. "And I would love to take your boyfriend apart at the seams. But if it's fucking with your vibe—"

"It's not," Eliot says. "The two of you together doesn't make me jealous. I want to see it. I want to be in on it."

"Okay," Margo says. "Why am I different?"

Eliot shrugs, but he takes a second to think. "I really, really want you to like him. Like I need that. I need you to have something with him. I don't know why."

"Maybe it's because you love me," Margo says. 

Eliot bends to kiss her forehead. "I do."

She pulls his head down and kisses his forehead back. "What do you need?"

"Do you remember how we talked about it?" Eliot says.

"Yes."

"I told him."

Margo nods. "Good."

"And he told me he wants you. And how he wants you. In detail."

"Oh I know you liked that. So you want to make his fantasy come true?"

"Can we?"

"What does he want?"

"His face between your legs. And he has an exhibition kink. Are you in?"

"Am I," Margo says, and twists around in his arms, leaning against him while she scans the crowd. "Just watch me."

She lifts her hands, palm up, and Eliot covers them with hers. "You want to link?"

"Won't that make it more fun?" She's already twisting her fingers into the first gesture. 

Eliot contorts his hands in a mirror reflection of hers. "Definitely."

They cast the spell in unison, every gesture copied exactly, and for the second time this week Eliot feels his sensorium doubled--the soft touch of silk ghosting over his skin, the tight sensitivity of his nipples gone hard, and the pleasant throbbing ache of his clit.

The first time they'd done this, Margo had masturbated herself into multiple orgasms that left the inside of Eliot's thighs shaking. The second time, he explored every inch of her body, feeling exactly what made her quiver and curl her toes, and then fucked her until they came in a recursive loop that just about knocked them unconscious. It was almost but not quite the same as the control spell for Eliot's double. Doing it with Margo's different--more unpredictable. More intimate. 

Eliot always felt like Margo was the other half of himself, and he never feels that as strongly as when they link. He bends his head to kiss the side of her neck, drags the edge of one fingernail along the inside curve of her breasts. He can't stop touching her, and he smiles as his pussy gets even wetter than before.

He slides his hand down her belly and she pushes her hips forward, spreading her legs for his fingers, and he teases her slippery wet clit with gentle touches, and it's frustrating but good--tantalizing, feeling like he wants more but not giving over.

Margo moans quietly and bounces her hips a little, and Quentin stops and stares at Margo gently grinding on Eliot's fingers. Her deep-plunging gown gapes open, exposing her perfect, rounded breasts. She makes Eliot gasp in her ear as she plays with her nipples. Her nerves shiver up her back, and she lifts her hand again, beckoning Quentin near.

He's right in her space in a heartbeat. 

"Can I—" but he stops talking as Eliot lifts his hand from Margo's clit and raises his fingers to Quentin's mouth.

The air whooshes out of Quentin's lungs as the scent hits his nose. He moans and opens his mouth, gazing at Margo as Eliot puts his fingers on his tongue. Quentin's eyelids slip half shut as he sucks the taste off Eliot's fingers. 

Quentin moans, sliding his tongue between Eliot's fingers, desperate for every drop. Margo's body thrills as she watches Quentin's reaction, her pussy soaking wet now, her clit hard and aching.

"Feed him again," she says, and it sends a shiver up Eliot's back.

Quentin's face as Eliot takes his fingers away is the picture of arousal denied. He watches Eliot's fingers slide between her legs, over the smooth bare skin of her pussy, his fingers soaked at first touch, but he plays with the hard, throbbing head of her clit and closes his eyes as the sensations play over his nerves.

Quentin watches Eliot's hand, licking his lips as they draw near. He sucks Eliot's fingers, and Margo spreads her feet a little more, canting her hips forward. Quentin sucks and slurps and groans, and the glassy look in his eyes is lost. He's flying, high up in that state of consciousness that's equal parts arousal and suggestibility, and Eliot watches him carefully. Margo's in charge, but he's still responsible for Quentin, to make sure that everything that happens to him when he's deep under like this is perfect and wanted.

Quentin sucks every finger clean, utterly stunned, and Margot draws him in for a kiss.

Quentin's hands raise to cup Margo's breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, and Eliot can taste Margo in that echoing sense that belongs to his best friend. Margo kisses him back, and Eliot gasps at the surge of feeling radiating through Margo's body. Her pussy aches, too empty, and Quentin breaks off the kiss to seal his mouth over one of her nipples and sucks.

"Fuck," Margo groans. "Fuck. Fuck. Get down there. Eat my pussy, I want your mouth there...show me what you can do—"

Quentin's on his knees in an instant, kissing her mound, the crease of her thighs (ticklish!) But it makes her clit feel like it's swelling even further out of its pink hood. Quentin kisses his way down, groaning as he licks her wet pussy, sliding his tongue along the hood, exactly where Eliot's fingers rubbed and teased—

And Margo grabs his hair and pushes his face into her clit. "More."

Eliot can't stop the groan from his own mouth, because when Quentin quits fucking around and gets down to business, he's _amazing._ He opens his mouth and purses his lips like he's sucking on a perfect ripe peach, his tongue sliding over Margo's clit. It's so fucking good, soft and relentless, and Eliot groans at so much sensation from such a small spot. Margo grabs for Eliot, and he holds her up so she can push her pussy against Quentin's mouth, gently grinding against his face.

"He's good...oh, Fuck! Good...So good, Quentin, suck me, fucking good at this...who taught you to suck pussy like that? Oh fuck Eliot, he's good…"

She drapes one leg over Quentin's shoulder and now she can't even make words, only broken groans as Quentin goes at her pussy, rolling her plump, hard clit against his tongue and lips. Gently, he slides two fingers inside her, curling them as he pushes deep and—

Margo and Eliot both cry out at the same time. "Fuck!"

He's gentle on her clit now, but fingerbanging her and rubbing that spot deep in her pussy and margo's biting down on her lip now, her thighs shaking and her clit is so sensitive against Quentin's tongue and fuck she's gotta pee, but the urgent feeling builds along with the tension along her whole pussy and it's too much, it's too much and Margo and Eliot are wailing now, she's grinding her clit into Quentin's mouth and she's gonna come, oh fuck _now—_

Margo's wailing and shaking all over when the incredible jolts are done shocking through her. Eliot opens his eyes and there's a crowd around them, gathered to watch Quentin as he slowly slides his fingers out of Margo's pussy, licking her clean with slow, gentle strokes--until Margo sobs and stands up straight, clamping her thighs shut.

Eliot holds her up, and Quentin stands. Margo throws her arms around his neck and clings to him, her body still trembling, her clit still jerking with the aftershocks. He strokes her back with one hand and smiles, his mouth and chin shiny with her juices.

"Want to do that lying down next time?"

"You asshole," Margo says, her voice shaking. "You held out on me."

"There wasn't a good way to weave it into conversation."

She hits him with a fist and laughs. "You're doing that again."

Quentin sucks on his fingers. "If you let me, I'll do it every day."

Margo's utterly sated. If she could purr she'd be going like a motor right now, and Eliot's grinning like a fool. "Happy, Bambi?"

"Fuck yes. I hope you don't mind but I want in your boyfriend's pants."

"I think that will be okay with all of us," Eliot says. "Quentin?"

"Hell yes." He looks at Eliot and mouths _thank you_ as he hugs Margo until she's steady on her feet again. "What did you do? I heard both of you sometimes."

"We linked."

"Like you do with the construct?"

"Basically," Eliot smiles. "Where did you learn to do that? It was amazing."

"Oh, I knew a girl," Quentin says. "Is that the island?"

Eliot can't see what Quentin's looking at, but he knows a subject change when he hears one. "Probably. The sun's coming up soon. We should disembark at dawn."

"Hey," Eliot says. "I hit a nerve."

"No," Quentin says. "I just...you know that thing in the fanfics where your best friend teaches you how to kiss and then she figures out in undergrad that she's a lesbian and you drunkenly bargain to learn everything she and her girlfriend can teach about giving face?"

"I don't remember that fic," Eliot says.

"It's just as well. The ending sucks."

Eliot grabs him in a hug, and Margo sandwiches him in between the two of them. "None of that," Margo says. "Look at him."

Quentin looks up at Eliot, golden lights shimmering in his eyes.

"Just look. Don't do anything else."

In the dark like this, Quentin's eyes might as well be black, but he knows they're a warm brown in the sunshine, and right now he's looking at Eliot with a soft smile folding the outer corners. Quentin looks at him like he's the most special person in the world, and—

Fuck. He's so wonderful. Eliot looks into his eyes and all he can think about is how right Quentin feels. How much he wants him, how he loves waking up next to him as much as he likes setting up the next adventure, how he's so greedy for Quentin's new experiences he'll spend over a week making a double to satisfy a fantasy. How he's bringing Quentin to his favorite holiday of the year. How he stirred up feelings he doesn't usually feel attached enough to feel. 

And he loves Quentin's face. He loves his wide smile and his kind eyes and how he can't hide anything he feels from his expression, and he's looking at Eliot now, like…

Fuck. 

Quentin's looking at him like he's the most amazing person he's ever seen. Like he's gazing at something--someone who stirs up his most hidden parts, and he's holding them out for Eliot. It's a look so naked, so vulnerable, so trusting that it makes his insides quiver in fear--what if he hurts Quentin? Even if he doesn't mean to, or want to, or thought he would?

Protectiveness washes over Eliot. Quentin's a treasure. He has to keep him safe.

"What do you see?" Margo asks.

Quentin smiles, elated. "Eliot. You're so beautiful."

"So are you." 

Eliot reaches for Quentin, one hand curled around the back of his neck, and kisses him. Margo's still on his tongue, and Margo can feel their kiss as Eliot tries to put everything he feels into it--awe, and fear, and gratitude, as naked as he can.

When the ship's bells ring and Eliot lifts his mouth from Quentin's, he's dazed and euphoric. The sun rises over the Mediterranean, reflected in his smile.


End file.
